Patches
by manor-of-wayne
Summary: Sherlock and John fight it out over Sherlock's old nicotine addiction, but end up discovering something new about the two of them.


As John walked up the stairs, he heard some ruffling and things being tossed to the floor. He hopped it wasn't a robber, but thought that it wouldn't have been the first time and it most definitely wouldn't have been the last. He thought, though, and using the skills he had picked up from living with Sherlock every day of his life, he came to the conclusion that it wasn't a robber and it was just Sherlock rifling through the flat again, probably in search for some notes on a case he had solved years ago. John pushed the door open to see Sherlock violently throwing books and loose papers aside as he dug through the shelf that held all of his compilations of notes on scientific experiments and discoveries. He was completely focused on finding something, though it couldn't have been a particular book or paper as he was haphazardly tossing everything of that sort aside.

"Sherlock, what is it you're looking for?" John asked as he made his way into the kitchen to put the groceries away. Sherlock made no attempt to respond, and continued throwing everything behind him. Once he had cleaned out the entire shelf, he let out a giant sigh, walked over to the couch and threw himself on it. Laying down, facing the ceiling with his fingertips put together under his chin, he called John over to him.

"John."

"What?"

"Where are they?"

"Where are what, Sherlock? I haven't got any idea what you're looking for." John closed the door the refrigerator, and walked out into the living room. He saw Sherlock spread out on the couch, as if he were solving an incredibly intricate case, and could only wonder what it was that Sherlock was looking for.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Think! What are the only things that I would beg for from you? Put myself in your debt for. Plead and grovel in submission for - John. Patches. Where are my patches? I have looked through every possible corner, every possible pocket of this flat for them and I haven't found _one_. Where have you put them? And yes. I am putting this solely on you. If it were up to me I would keep them in the most accessible nooks and crannies, but no. You, _you_ feel it necessary to put them where their own proprietor couldn't find them. Again I will ask you: Where. Are. My patches." During his tirade, Sherlock built up more and more animosity toward John, opening his eyes and rolling them at the ceiling and walls dotted with small bullet holes. It was obvious that Sherlock was in desperate need of nicotine.

John let out a big sigh. It had been weeks since Sherlock had had even one patch on his forearm, and now he was begging John to provide an entire box full. It wouldn't do to argue with him, a fact that John had come to terms with long before this point, but John figured he could at least try to reason with him.

"Sherlock, you've gone weeks without a single patch. Why do you so desperately need them now?"

Sherlock looked over at John, and shook his head like he often did at Anderson down at the yard. He clenched his teeth together, willing himself to not lash out at John. "John, let me ask you a question. Are you familiar with the word 'addiction'?"

John licked his lips, and shuffled his feet. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm plenty well acquainted with the word 'addiction', thank you for asking." John had been trained to recognize a losing battle when he saw one, and this looked no different from the others he had seen. He didn't feel like giving into Sherlock, though, as he had come a long way from the three patches on his forearm daily to none at all.

"Well that certainly helps. John, I want you to think about what you know about the word 'addiction'. Got it? Alright, good. Now. Apply that knowledge to our current circumstance and perhaps you will understand that I NEED A PATCH. THANK YOU. WHERE ARE THEY?" Sherlock pushed up off the couch and prowled around the room, kicking loose papers and books everywhere he went, in a fit of desperation and rage.

"Calm down, will you? You'll give Mrs. Hudson a start." John said in a hushed tone, trying to influence Sherlock enough to stop acting like a child and to lower his voice. Sherlock stopped with his back to John, and slowly turned around to face him. He placed his hands on John's shoulders and leaned in as far as he could without things getting a bit uncomfortable. Sherlock lowered his voice to a low and soft whisper, and pleaded.

"Anything John. I will do anything. Cook, clean, shop, anything. Just please, please, give me a patch. Just one. That's all I'm asking for."

John swallowed, and looked into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock knew didn't he? The eyes he had gotten used to receiving glares and meaningless glances from looked back at him. He knew this would work. Sherlock wasn't completely unaware of human emotion. Shit. It had been such a long time since John had let that little part of him who liked to be this close to Sherlock into his mind. Come to think of it, it had been a long time since Sherlock had come that close, so it hadn't been a problem. Sherlock's low and rough voice made John think of what he wouldn't give to make Sherlock do anything for him. John shook his head and stepped back from Sherlock.

"No, you don't have to do anything. Just- just stay here. I'll get them."

As John walked to the hallway, Sherlock looked after him. He was surprised at how easily John had given in to the whole deal. He was usually much more stubborn than that, especially when it came to Sherlock's addiction to nicotine. Then again, it wasn't always that Sherlock had used John's feelings for him to get what he wanted. He knew he shouldn't that it wasn't a very humane thing to be doing, but his forearms ached for the patches to be liberally placed everywhere, and Sherlock's addiction spoke louder than judgment at that particular moment. Still, there had been something about looking into John's eyes and being that close that Sherlock had enjoyed. He blamed it on the fuzziness in his brain, yelling at him for nicotine.

John walked into his bedroom and sat on the bed for a moment, to clear his head. He knew that he shouldn't have let his feelings for Sherlock get to him, and take control of the situation, but it was too late for that. For months John had ignored the way Sherlock looked in the early hours of the morning, and the way he spoke at the very last hours of the day with a rough and groggy voice, skipping over the eloquence he so often weaved into every day conversation. He had ignored the way Sherlock perched himself in his chair while watching the crap telly he had criticized during the first few weeks of John living in the flat, yelling out deductions and mocking the overlooked detail. He had ignored the half smirk Sherlock got when John got something right about a case and the approving grin when everything had been cleared up. It was ridiculous to feel this way about a flat mate who was obviously no more interested in a relationship than he was interested in eating a regular diet and getting on a regular sleep schedule. John pushed all of those thoughts to the back of his mind, stood up off the bed and walked over to his bed-side table. He opened the drawer, and next to his gun, there was the box of patches he kept in case Sherlock had an emergency. John picked the box up and walked out to the living room.

Sherlock was still kicking himself for being so inconsiderate as to use John's emotional state and feelings toward him to get his patches when John walked back into the room. John tossed Sherlock the box with some force, and Sherlock caught it gracefully as he sat himself on the couch. He tore into the box, and immediately set to putting as many patches on his arm as he could fit when he looked up and saw John looking down on him. Sherlock couldn't have been sure what John's deal with nicotine addiction was, as it had little to do with his own health, but he could see that the abuse of patches Sherlock was accustomed to bothered him. The sadness in John's eyes as he turned away from Sherlock to let him apply them freely and generously made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks of opening the second patch. He placed it back in the box, folded the top of it over, glanced down at his forearm in sudden ease, and rolled his sleeve back down.

"John?" Sherlock called as John walked into the kitchen to make some tea. "John, can I ask you something?"

"Sherlock, I've already told you. I'm familiar with the definition of addiction. Use the whole damn box if you want to, just throw away the wrappers when you're done and pick of the mess you've made." John rifled through the cabinet to find the tea, but found that Sherlock had been through there, too and misplaced the tea box. He sighed and set to looking about the kitchen for it.

"No, that's – that's not what I was going to ask at all. I was just – well – curious about why my using multiple nicotine patches affects you so much. If you don't mind my asking." Sherlock had come to the doorway to the kitchen, and leaned against it. Crossing his arms and looking on at John making his way around the kitchen looking for the tea bags. John seemed so dismal and upset, and Sherlock, though he had his suspicions, was inquisitive.

"Well I'm sure that you can figure it out. You've come face to face with more difficult problems, have you not?" John asked as he sifted through the cabinets looking for the tea in a more frustrated manner than he had before.

"I'm giving you the chance to fully explain before I jump to conclusions. That's not a chance everyone gets, you know."

John straightened up to look through the top cabinets as he started to explain to Sherlock why Sherlock's total dependency on nicotine, whether it be a cigarette or a patch bothered him. "I don't doubt that you remember the very first time we met, when you deduced that my sister was an alcoholic, right?" John paused and looked over at Sherlock, his face blank. Sherlock gave him a small and encouraging nod, telling him to go on. "Well it's just that I remember how her addiction to alcohol ruined her relationship – _not _saying I think your addiction will ruin ours – it won't. And how it ruined her. She spent all of her money on alcohol, and all of her time drunk and… Sherlock, I just witnessed addiction at its worst and as I doctor I know that the side effects of your nicotine addiction are much less dangerous to others around you, and it doesn't put you in an impaired state of mind, but it worries me. You know that. You've _known_ that."

"Of course I've known that, John, and I'm flattered that you'd be worried about my physical health, but it should be the last thing you spend time worrying about. After all of my previous follies with morphine and cocaine, among other things, I should hope that you respect my reliance on nicotine, and treat it as a much healthier and safer practice compared to those I've had."

John nodded. This was the last thing he wanted to be talking about. About Sherlock and his history with other drugs, about his sister and where she ended up due to her alcoholism. John thought about the rounded square red marks Sherlock had when he finally took the patches off, and of Sherlock laying on the couch arms covered in patches, fingertips touching under his chin. It wasn't the danger of their friendship ending, or of the money they'd spend funding Sherlock's addiction that bothered John. It was in the long run. John knew that it was pointless to think about his future with Sherlock, as living with Sherlock was as close to living each day as it came, but John couldn't help it. He wanted to grow old with Sherlock by his side. Making comments laced with snark and his signature smirks. If Sherlock kept with this addiction, and let it rule his every day existence, the chances of growing old together shortened. John couldn't admit that to Sherlock, but what he could admit was that he had every right to be concerned for Sherlock's well being.

"Shut up. Shut the hell up." John said as he slammed the door to the cabinet he was looking in. "You have no idea what you're saying to me right now, do you? You are saying to me that I shouldn't be concerned for your well being Though I shouldn't let that concern grow into paranoia and take over every aspect of my life, I think I've got a right to be concerned for the only true friend I've got and I think I've got a right to worry that if you keep with this that when I'm 60 or 70 years old you won't be there. That's not something I want, and I'm not saying that you need to quit and I'm not saying that you should, but I'm saying that when you get into those deep depressions and ruts where you can't go a day without sticking five or six of those on your arms. That scares me, and damn it, Sherlock, I've got a right to be scared. So screw off, would you, and go pretend that your physical health doesn't matter elsewhere, alright?" John leaned against the counter and looked over at Sherlock, with his arms folded and lips flattened into a straight line, daring Sherlock to walk away. He didn't Sherlock left his spot at the doorway and walked right up to John, getting as close as he could. Sherlock's eyes met with John's, the same way they had just minutes ago in the living room as he reached up over John's head to the cabinet, opened it, and pulled out the box of tea John was looking for. He set it on the counter and put his hand back up to shut the cabinet door and leave it there, so he could lean over John.

"You have to understand, John, that in my life, no one has bothered to tell me that they care. No one has bothered to stop and take some time out of their day to give a rat's ass about me. Not until you. You don't understand how that feels. You will never understand how that feels, but I am asking you – please – to be patient with me while I get used to the fact that someone has feelings for me that aren't hatred, contempt, or total neutrality about my life or death." Sherlock set his eyes to look at John, and took a pause to gather himself. "I know that this makes you worried, but it isn't near the amount of worry you would have if I picked up the other habits that I had before you had moved here."

John looked up at Sherlock, towering over him with his hand pressed against the cabinet. There were too many thoughts racing through John's head to clear. Thoughts about Sherlock, his lips, and the smoothness of the skin that showed when the first few top buttons of his shirt weren't done. Thoughts about Sherlock and how much he cared for him, how amazing it was to finally care about something other than staying alive on the Afghanistan terrain, keeping track of everyone else's well being John took a moment to sort his thoughts, or more likely, those of which he could get a grip on and organize, before speaking.

"You're right. I won't understand what that's like, but there are two sides of this story. My sister isn't nearly as big a part of this as my training to care about people's health is. For such a long time, the only thought in my mind apart from that of staying alive, was 'Please. Live.'. It's my nature to care about someone that way, Sherlock. And I trust that we can work together to make this situation as accommodating as it can be for the both of us…"

Sherlock had forgotten, as he usually did, about John's army career. He kicked himself for letting it slide again, but didn't let it show. He never let it show. "John, of course-"

John couldn't take it any longer. The distance between the two of them that had been there for far too long. John couldn't have cared less where this would end up, as long as it happened and happened now. He leaned up and pressed his lips against Sherlock's and sighed as he pressed against the taller man, leaning over him. Sherlock let out a little gasp as John moved his lips against his, but fell into the kiss almost as suddenly as it had happened. Up until this point, Sherlock was unsure about the feelings that had been deep inside his stomach whenever he saw jaw sitting up late at night blogging about the most recent case. The feelings that he got when the two of them stumbled into the flat after chasing down a criminal all day, and they looked at each other and giggled for a few minutes leaning up against the wall. He knew that it was friendship, but a part of him that he had never recognized before told him it was something more. A friend wouldn't be so passionate about protecting his health against a feeble habit such as nicotine patches. A friend wouldn't stay up past midnight, listing to his violin playing, or rambling about a current case. John wasn't a friend. He was more than a friend. But as John's lips pressed against his, closing the distance between the two of them that they had both been silently battling, Sherlock struggled to put a label on it. To hell with labels. He would deal with that later.

Sherlock pressed his hand firmer into the cabinet door, as he pushed against John, his body touching as much of the other man as they could make possible. With no words they had decided to fall further into the kiss than John had originally planned, and Sherlock slid his hands under John to lift him onto the counter. John's hands moved against Sherlock's chest, undoing the buttons on his shirt as fast he could. Sherlock slid John's jumper over his head and started on unbuttoning John's shirt. They closed the space between their lips as soon as they could, and moved together as fast as they could.

Sherlock pulled back swiftly and rested his forehead against John's. "We should," he said and took a deep breath, "Slow down." John left his hands on Sherlock's bare shoulders and sighed. The two of them stayed in that position for a few moments before John decided to say something.

"I'm sorr-"

"Don't be," Sherlock cut him off, "That was-"

"Good."

"Great, even."

"Amazing."

John slid his hands down to Sherlock's lower back. "You have no idea how long I've-"

"Yes I do, John. I have every idea in this godforsaken world how long you've waited for this, because I have been waiting just as long as you have," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock."

"John?"

"I.. I love you."

"The feeling is more than reciprocated, John. I love you, too. I think I always have."


End file.
